Hugh clambered out of bed, his reaching hand grasping his ceremonial claymore, that had been brought from Scotland under Morrigan’s banner. Too clumsy for the chamber, better suited for the jousting field, it was all he had.
Kieran chuckled as he whipped the Venetian rapier in front of him. “Look to yourself, cousin.”
“Kill him, Kieran!”
When Hugh staggered back, he hit the small table at the side of the bed, overturning it, and spilling Kieran’s unguents to the floor. Shards of the container littered the area under Hugh’s bare feet.
Thudding began on the chamber door. Shouts penetrated the thick wood. “Hugh! Milady!”
“To me!” Morrigan yelled.
As she did, Maud charged her with her sword outstretched.
Morrigan danced away, beginning a battle that would take too much time. Hugh needed her. “Think not to enlist the aid of any MacKay, Maud MacKenzie. They will see through your wicked ploys.”
“My son will become the laird. The treasures of MacKay will be ours. Hugh had his opportunity. Now he must die.”
“He never wanted you. Few would,” Morrigan taunted, needing a leverage to help her finish off Maud. “Too many coincidences, milady. I vow only the crazed would give you homage if aught happened to our laird. Methinks you’ve taken on too much this time.”
“Kill him, Kieran, and help me,” Maud ordered.
“Your son, spawn of the devil that he is, will need all his strength to fight Hugh, and he’ll not be victorious,” Morrigan hurled at Maud, stepping away from a hard thrust. “Did you think to come at my husband with impunity? Have you forgotten MacKays outside this door who’d hunt you to your home in Hell if you come at Hugh? Already you’ve forfeited your life.” Morrigan was fast losing breath. She’d underestimated Maud’s skill. It took every effort to battle her and keep talking to undermine her. “Listen to the MacKays, Maud. Even now they call to us and threaten to break down the barrier.”
Hugh stumbled and fell. He just made it to his feet, swaying there, swiping at his sweating face.
Kieran smiled. “Fear not, Mother. You’ll die, Morrigan.”
“Never!” Hugh cursed.
Kieran ground his teeth and charged, aiming his sword at Hugh. “And MacKays will hear that she attacked you, Hugh. I’ll say I couldn’t save you, but I killed her.” The rapier swished through the air at Hugh’s chest.
The heavy claymore came up from the floor, two hands on the powerful blade, slicing up and through the middle of Kieran MacKenzie.
“Traitor,” Hugh rasped.
“No!” Maud screamed, then rushed to her son, falling forward on her short sword, impaling herself over his body.
The door crashed open, armed MacKays pouring through the opening, battle cries issuing from their mouths.
Morrigan threw herself at her husband. “Take me home, Hugh MacKay, take me home.”
“At once, beloved. Not another sennight do we reside away from Castle MacKay.” He looked at his men. “Diuran, get rid of the garbage. They’re not to be shriven.”
Diuran glanced down at the two bodies. “ ’Twill be done.”
EPILOGUE
Now is the time for drinking, now the time tobeat the earth with unfettered foot.
Horace
Scotland was warming again. All was serene, beautiful. Even the wild Pentland Sea seemed more calm. Laughter could be heard in the distance as children romped.
Eamon and Urdred were playing a game with Avis, Conal, and Rhys, and the laughter was loud and long.
“Life is sweet, is it not?” Morrigan asked her husband, as she suckled her babe to her breast. “The air is so fresh. I had to be out in it today. What think you of our Riordan, husband?”
Hugh was lying back on the ground studying her, one of his favorite things to do. “I think he’s a feckless lump with no gratitude.”
“What?” The mother in Morrigan rebelled at such words and she glared. “How can you? He’s the most perfect of babes. He sleeps well. Dilla says there never was a better we’en.”
“He took his time at birthing. I’ll not forget that.”
“Dilla says ’twas not unusual.”
“What does she know?” Hugh reared up on his elbow, to make sure the tartan was around his wife. “Did she have to pace the chamber while you suffered? No! I’ve never seen such agony in any battlefield as was in that birthing bed.”
“Not so.” Morrigan tried not to laugh as she recalled how it’d taken Diuran and Urdred to force him from the room when the birthing was done, and she needed cleansing. How horrified the women had been when the laird had insisted he would do the job.
“And don’t mention those MacKays that thought it amusing that I was ordered from my own chamber. I’ve still not factored how I’ll repay them. Never did I think Dilla would turn against me. I’ve pondered the torture chamber for the lot.”
“You’ll do nothing,” Morrigan said, her face serene. “Or perhaps you’ll punish them as you did Carmody and Toric. Putting them in charge of all that is MacKay, in land and monies, was a good plan. And a good job they’ve done.”
Hugh frowned. “They have. Would that I could’ve taken their assault on myself.”
Morrigan finished nursing and cuddling the baby and then returned him to the woven birthing sock that kept him so warm and safe. “You have, time and again, husband. They’ve told me so. Now, you dignify their courage by making them lieutenants over all your warriors. You’ve given Diodura and Latura happiness and security. All love you for what you are, just as I do.” She touched her husband with tenderness.
Hugh eyed her. “When I look at you I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten we loved that first time.” He shook his head. “You told me of our nuptial night when we came home from Wales, and, in truth, I saw it all again, Morrigan.”
She slid down next to him, gazing at the sky, then at him. “I know. It pained me to keep the secret of Trevelyan from you.” She stroked his cheek. “ ’Twas even worse to hold back about our loving.” She smiled. “You recalled it all in what you thought was a dream, my love.”
He rolled over so that his body tented hers. “And was I gentle with you your first time, sweetling? That has bothered me since you told me.”
He did not mention that she’d dissembled and kept a very important secret from him. Not once had Rhys’s true birthright, and her reason for needing to be regent of Trevelyan, concerned him. Rather he worried whether he’d been gentle with her when they’d loved the first time. This was not the first time he’d asked since she’d confessed all. She rubbed the Llywelyn medallion that Cumhal had reclaimed from Goll.
“My dearest Hugh, you are all of goodness to me, and you were then.”
“Then I vow to keep and protect Trevelyan for our son Rhys. We will tell him, together, about his legacy, when he’s older. There is enough of MacKay holdings and monies to provide for Conal, Riordan, and Avis.” He smiled. Then it faded. “You are sure I was gentle with you, love?”
“You were and always will be all of beauty, all of passion and love. Our first loving was as grand and glorious as the others have been since. You caught me in your web on first meeting, and I wouldn’t leave you if I could.”
Hugh kissed her, his mouth warm. “Nay, I’m in your sweet web, wife. And I love the tangle. Swear you’ll never leave me.”
“Not in this world or the next.”
They embraced, kissing over and over and murmuring love words as the laughter of their children echoed around them.
A Proud Welsh Princess
In the year of our Lord 1327, the king decreed that Morrigan Llywelyn of Wales was to wed Hugh of Clan MacKay, a Scottish outlaw. Swearing never to bend to his will, Morrigan would tremble before the giant Scot, defeated not by force but by overwhelming desire…
A Scottish Outlaw
Pardoned by King Edward, the renegade MacKay gave no thought to his bride until their nuptials. Then he faced a beauty with raven hair and dove-whi
te skin he burned to touch, an innocent whose passion nearly drove him mad. And when fate tore her from his arms, he began a desperate quest to find her—fighting for his kingdom, his honor, and the woman who had stolen his heart.
The Pledge
As the clash of sword upon sword echoes across medieval Britain, Helen Mittermeyer spins a historical romance filled with pageantry and passion, a book to transport the reader’s imagination into a fascinating era… and an unforgettable love.
“HELEN MITTERMEYER IS A MASTER
OF THE MEDIEVAL GENRE…. PASSION
OVERFLOWS AND BATHES THE READER IN
A ROMANTIC AFTERGLOW”
—Rendezvous on The Veil
The Pledge Page 30